


Digithesis

by Rigil_Kentauris



Series: Digithetics [1]
Category: Alpha Protocol, Deus Ex: Human Revolution, Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Gen, International Fanworks Day 2017, M/M, Office Shenanigans, Video Game Characters Playing Video Games, gameception, obligatory black and gold, third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9788396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigil_Kentauris/pseuds/Rigil_Kentauris
Summary: Agent Mina Tang has one mission, and it's a doozy - get her friends into gaming.A universe away, Francis Pritchard has assigned himself the same task. He's only finding itslightlyeasier.





	1. I really thought you two would like FPSs better

**Author's Note:**

> I was _this_ close to being on time with this one.
> 
> [in the magic post-canon space every video game seems to have]
> 
>  
> 
> ~~typos in the wild kill them~~

    She’d spent _weeks_ trying to find the perfect game for those two. Mina’s personal quest – match every G22 agent under her command with their perfect video game. It had gone about as well as she’d expected – her agents lived a video game daily. Half didn’t see the point of adding on, the other half were already exhausted with the whole idea. And then there had been the _Tetris_ incident. Sure, the game had _technically_ been invented in Soviet Russia but maybe, just maybe, she shouldn’t have told chief conspiracy theorist Steven Heck that fact-

    Fortunately, Michael owed her one. More than one, in fact, but who was counting.

    Unfortunately, whatever Michael did, Darcy inevitably attached himself to. And it was making the experience difficult, to say the least.

    “Look,” she said, the effort of forcing her jaw in motion starting to noticeably drain what was left of her patience. “You _like_ blowing things up.”

    She slammed the copy of _Just Cause 2_ down on his desk, for the third time. He spun around in his chair, the beginnings of a smirk starting to form on his lips, and she could feel the retort, the innuendo, the childish _whatever_ coming.

    “Michael,” she said, before Darcy could start talking, “Back me up here.”

    Darcy leaned around her, raised his eyebrows slightly. _No, back_ me _up here_ , his expression read, and Mina felt her fist trying to curl up around itself.

    Behind them, Michael leaned off the wall, uncrossed his arms. He raised them in mock surrender.

    “Sorry, Mina,” he started. “I-”

    “Thorton, you _owe_ me,” she growled, ignoring the way Darcy leaned back in his chair and basked in her visible annoyance like some kind of self-satisfied cat.

     _Don’t feed the trolls_ , she mentally reminded herself for the _fourth_ time today.

    She took a small, short breath in through her nose. “You owe me,” she repeated, calmly.

    “I do owe her,” Michael said out loud, studying Darcy’s very sudden evil eye.

    “What’re ya’ lookin’ at me for?” he challenged, and started tapping his finger on his arm rest.

    “I _do_ owe you,” Michael pronounced with finality, over Darcy’s dark _uh-HUH_.

    They both turned to stare at her, Michael’s electric green eyes filled with patient expectations, Darcy’s reminding her not to go anywhere near his office for the rest of the day. They stared for another second before she realized they were waiting for her.

     _Weeks_ trying to find the perfect game. Borderlands 2, Minecraft, CS:GO – hell, she’d even tried to sell them on Animal Crossing, on a misplaced instinct that maybe Darcy’s incessant need to be contrary might give him something to like about it. He and Mike had spent the next week bopping new recruits over the head with cheap butterfly nets, and that was as close as she’d gotten to success.

    But now…now they would see. Now they would listen. About damn time, too.

    “Well,” she started, “I really think you’re going to like this one. It’s an open-world action adventure single-player game, but there’s this mod that I think you’ll both-”

    They stared at her blankly, Darcy’s fingers tapping slowly, deliberately, one by one. Michael stopped looking at her for a moment to glare at him.

    Better to skip the technical details. Not like they were ready for PC anyway.

    “Anyway,” she continued, “You’re a lone agent overthrowing a corrupt government-”

    “I know, I know,” she said, holding up a hand. Michael lowered his finger. “But this time, you…basically, you get points for blowing things up and wreaking havoc while you do it.”

    “Can we get rocket launchers?” Michael started to ask, when Darcy picked up the copy, inspected it, and then tossed it back at Mina. For a split second, she thought about letting it fall, but her hand had apparently already made the decision to catch it.

    “Nope,” he said flippantly, spun back around to his computer, and resumed his typing.

    A familiar rumbling angry noise was building in her throat. She checked it, remembered to breathe. On his screen, _lorem ipsum_ appeared letter by letter in the open word document.

    Michael crossed over and paused to ruffle his hair before motioning Mina to follow him out of the office.

    “I don’t know why I bother,” she complained, the moment the door was closed.

    “Because you’re even more stubborn than he is,” he said, pulling the copy free of her clenched grasp, and starting down the stark, empty corridor. “When can you teach me how to work this?”

    She sighed.

    “I’ll teach you whenever you want…it’s just…”

    Her project. She’d had _one_ goal. One. And Darcy was ruining it.

    “Get out while you still can,” he suggested.

    “Aren’t you dating him?”

    “Oh _shit!”_ he said with mock surprise, looking down at his hands and arms, eyes wide, like he was seeing himself for the first time. “Damn it, you’re right! Oops.”

    “Besides, pot calling the kettle black here. You’ve shot down as many as he has.”

    He flipped the copy of _Just Cause 2_ in the air, and she snatched it free, scowling at him.

    “You want my advice-” he said, looking over at her.

    “-not really-”

    “-just,” he continued, with a smile, “tell us what _you_ like. I mean, if you’re really into something, how _could_ we hate it?”

    “Darcy could hate anything,” she grumbled.

    “ _You_ hit us with your best shot, and _I’ll_ handle Sean. Deal?”

    He stopped walking, and stuck out his hand.

    “I do have a few more ideas…” she said, thoughtfully.

    He wiggled his hand in midair, smiling brightly at her.

    “Fine,” she said, and grabbed it. “But this is a shitty deal.”

    “Same time next week?”

    “You had _better_ be ready.”

    He let her hand go, and gave her a nod and sharp wave goodbye.

 

* * *

 

    When she’d given them the Gamecube, the machine had been pristine. The next time she saw it  – what was left of it – the slagged mound was on fire in the middle of the outdoor grenade range.

    “Mikey gave up around the Water Temple,” Sean’d explained.

    She’d walked in on _Dead Space 2_ to find Sean shaking violently in front of a pause screen, Michael’s arm wrapped tight around his shoulders. The disc had been returned to her desk the next day completely unharmed. Good thing too – she’d completely forgotten about the train bit.

    Helgen had glitched horribly, and they wouldn’t touch _Skyrim_ after that.

    The disc for _Resident Evil 4_ , Darcy microwaved.

    She was running out of ideas.

 

* * *

 

    They sat down at the lounge table opposite her, Darcy landing in a huff, placing one elbow on the metal surface. Michael sat a second after, and removed Darcy’s arm.

    She tapped the case against her palm.

    “Honestly,” she said, “I’m out of ideas.”

    “What’s new?” Darcy said, then grunted sharply and shot Michael a dirty look.

    “Ow,” he added.

    Michael smiled at Mina pleasantly. “What’s the deal with this one?”

    “I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

    “Again,” Darcy quipped, “What’s ne-”

    “ _Darcy_ ,” Michael warned, the shallow smile still affixed on his face.

    “Fine, fine.” He turned to face Mina, pulled his elbow back up on the table. Waved his hand around dismissively. “Let’s get this over with.”

    “This is actually Steven’s copy,” she started, “so try not to ‘accidentally’ destroy this one. Mine is digital, and anyway, the Director’s Cut does a better job integrating – you know what? Never mind.”

    She steeled herself, sat up straighter, and then skidded it across the table.

    Thorton just looked confused, and blinked at it. Meanwhile, Darcy’s eyebrows all but took off, smirk mixing with a wide-eyed look of surprise.

    “You _like_ this?” he said, no bite to it yet, but she could feel it coming.

    One of these days, she _was_ going to punch him.

    He eyed the box incredulously, then sent it spinning around in lazy circles with a well-placed hit to the corner.

    “He’s got _swords_ in his arms,” he told her.

    “He’s got swords in his arms,” Michael echoed softly. Mina and Sean looked up at the same time, to find Michael’s own eyes flicking back and forth, tracking the motion of the box.

    Mina quietly started pushing her chair back, millimeter by millimeter.

    “Mikey, that doesn’t make any sense,” Darcy said, halting the box’s spin abruptly with a well-placed elbow.

    “Mmmm,” Michael hummed. He threaded a hand around Darcy’s elbow, towards the box.

    “ _Michael._ ” Darcy repeated, and caught Thorton’s hand up in his. “That _doesn’t_ make any sense.”

    Mina slipped out of her chair, thought about reminding them to whom the disk belonged. Noticed the set to Darcy’s jaw and thought better of it.

    If they got on Steven Heck’s bad side, there might not be enough of Darcy left to punch. And wasn’t that a happy thought?

 

* * *

 

    Another email popped into her inbox, and she sent the attachment to print without looking at it. She’d barely had enough time to underline a sentence on her current hard copy, before her PDA buzzed. She knocked her pen off the table swiping for it, and then yet _another_ email appeared in her inbox.

    She was developing a headache. The tightness of her hair tie might have something to do with that. And the non-stop stream of work that the agency had stumbled onto that morning.

    Her PDA buzzed impatiently, her email pinged, and the printer started sending out a shrill warning tone. She froze, pulled in all directions at once. Hand on her ponytail, eyes on her screen, every other sense straining towards the alarmed clattering of her PDA.

    Then someone knocked on her door, and she was more than happy to escape her cluttered workspace.

    “Good morning,” she said, opening it. One of the new recruits, tall, athletic, boring as hell. Caroline, or Cecília, or something.

    “It’s actually afternoon,” C-someone said timidly, then shoved a paper at Mina. “I’m supposed to bring this to Agent Thorton? But I don’t want to get hit with a net again.”

    “What’s he done now?” Mina complained, scanning it for what she kept hoping would be citation for terrifying recruits. “Oh.”

    Well, well. A commendation for a mission. Surprise, surprise.

    “Normally I wouldn’t do this, but-” _But if I stay in this office for one more minute, a stack of paperwork is bound to fall on my head and kill me-_ “I understand. It can be a little…rough, here.”

    She smiled at Catalina? Cameron? and ushered her out.

    “Thank you, Agent Tang,” Camila? said, and fled.

    A commendation. With recruits skittering around the hallways like that? _Albatross gives him far too much leeway._

    She shrugged. Still, if giving it to him would get her free for a while, well, then, that was an acceptable loss. For now.

 

    In the midst of the current storm of work hitting G22, Michael’s office had been empty. Which meant he was one place, and one place only.

    The door to Darcy’s office was partially open, and that was good enough for her. She slammed it the rest of the way.

    “ _Agent Thorton_ ,” she started, and stopped dead in her tracks.

    Michael, sitting on the ground under a puffy blanket, dropped his controller and his hands into his lap. The rest of his body was attuned to the scene playing out on the small TV screen – one she recognized immediately. Sean, meanwhile, shot up, leaving his chair spinning around.

    “HA!” he said, jumping and bouncing and jabbing a pointer finger towards the screen. “HA! I _TOLD_ YOU! I _TOLD_ YOU SHE WAS ALIVE!”

    Michael’s mouth fell open a little wider and he shook his head slowly, blanket slipping off a shoulder.

    Mina cleared her throat, and knocked on the open door loudly. In one motion, Darcy finished a half-jump by landing smoothly in his chair, letting his momentum spin it around until he was facing her. His usual smug smile fought for control over what she suspected was genuine excitement. Even more astonishing, the smug part appeared to be losing.

    “Can we help ya’?” he asked, eyes sliding constantly back over his shoulder to the TV screen, where a bulky man in a pseudo-militant outfit was speaking to a woman in an elaborate free-standing facsimile of a Victorian lace collar. She felt like sighing.

    “You’ve had this game for all of, what? Twenty-four hours? Twenty-five, maybe.”

    “You got a point?” he said, while Michael shushed him loudly.

    “He’s saying something about an ‘Eliza’,” Thorton hissed over his shoulder, and then seemed to notice Mina for the first time.

    “This…isn’t what it looks like,” he stammered, running one hand almost unconsciously over the beginnings of stubble on his chin, the other tightening around the corner of the blanket.

    “Oh?” she said, and crossed her arms. “It looks like you two stayed up all night playing video games, and haven’t bothered to do a shred of work today.”

    “Technically,” Darcy butted in, “we took the day off.”

    “We did?” Michael asked, loosening his grip on the blanket.

    “I called us in sick around midnight.”

     _Breathe_ , she reminded herself. Don’t think about the nine reports sitting in the overloaded printer tray, or the four agents who need weapons re-certification, or the fact that she’d only had time to eat half a piece of toast for breakfast. On screen, the cut scene ended, and Michael proceeded to start rooting around in drawers and on computers regardless of the fact that no fewer than two vital missions could have used extra analytical support-

    She couldn’t help it. She was thinking about it. The _nerve-_

    “So you’re playing hooky, then. Do you even know how things are-”

    “Actually,” Darcy interrupted again, eyes glinting, “we’re all playing hooky.”

    “We’re?” she said.

    “What?” Michael asked, pausing the game and twisting around.

    “Remember,” he said to Michael, “when ya’ spent two hours trying to beat Walking Tank?”

    “Yeah,” Michael said, with a wince. Mina felt her foot begin to tap.

    “Well,” he explained, turning back to face Mina and grinning, “I figured we _might_ end up needin’ help on the other boss fights, or we’d end up rage quitting like noobs.”

    “New vocab,” he added.

    Mina didn’t smile.

    “Anyway,” he continued, after a brief scowl at her look of disapproval, “I called in some favors, and long story short you’re off too, for the next…eh. Let’s call it eight hours.”

    “We have snacks,” said Michael, seizing on the opportunity.

    “More importantly, drinks.”

    “You mean to tell me,” she asked, finding difficultly even expressing the series of cascading doubts that filled her mind, “you two – you two supposed-to-be responsible, disciplined, respected intelligence agents – you spent all night buzzed playing – no, failing at _Deus Ex_ , and, if I know Michael at all, eating vending machine Oreos and trail mix?”

    They nodded simultaneously, and Mina groaned.

    “Around dawn,” Michael offered, “we did ask Albatross if take out would deliver here-”

    “I _don’t_ want to hear it. Really. I’d rather not know. I don’t understand how you got this.”

    She waved the commendation around, shaking her head in disbelief. A moment later Michael was by her side, blanket abandoned on the floor, so fast she had to do a double take. He plucked the paper free, and smiled broadly.

    “I believe you owe me,” he told Darcy, “exactly two hundred and seventy-five bucks. No, Hartford actually signed it this time, so an even three hundred.”

    Mina groaned again, and rubbed her forehead. “You _idiots_.”

    Darcy shrugged, and raised an eyebrow at her. “Can’t help but notice ya’ haven’t left yet, though.”

    She was going to dump him out of his chair.

    “I _could_ punch you,” she thought out loud, fighting the way her fingers clenched up and rolled into her palm, “or I could stay and ruin the whole ‘Eliza’ thing. Oh, and you _do_ know about Jensen’s parents by now, right? And the fire?”

    Michael’s threw his hands protectively around his ears and started chanting _no spoilers_ under his breath. Sean’s arrogant half-smile disappeared instantly, him drawing back into his chair.

    “You wouldn’t,” he said.

    “Oh, I would,” she said, enjoying the way his shoulders tensed, even while he tried to pretend it didn’t matter, looking at everywhere but her. “And, FYI – this series goes on another fifty years. I know _everything_.”

    Then she jabbed Michael’s side lightly. “It’s okay to come out now.”

    “No it isn’t,” Sean muttered.

    “It’s a good thing I have the day off!” she reminded him cheerfully.

    Then she plopped down on the floor next to Michael, and handed him the controller.

    “Sword arms?” she asked him, as he settled down beside her.

    “Tell me about it,” he agreed, waiting to unpause the game until Darcy scooted his chair over one stomped foot at a time.

    “We good?” Michael asked, gaze switching between them both.

    A moment later, three Oreos dropped above her head on to her lap, sending crumbs across her slacks.

    “ _Now_ we’re good,” Darcy said dusting his hands off over the side of his armrest, and Mina sighed, but she picked them up anyway and nodded back at Michael.

    She’d only stay for a minute. After all, she deserved a break.

    And she was, technically, off work today.


	2. Only REAL '90s kids remember Steam

    It took Pritchard all of thirty seconds to figure out which game to afflict Jensen with. A good thing, too.

     _“You got one more shot at this,”_ he’d growled, augmented fingers digging into the leather on the couch so tightly Francis imagined he could hear the almost silent clicking and whining of the miniature servomechanisms in his hand. Angry roughness in his voice, like it was Francis’ fault virtual baseball ended with Jensen tripping backwards over the couch, tumbling on to the floor gasping and trying not to throw up.

    Francis had grabbed his hand, had tried to help him up, but Jensen shoved him off and turned instead to glare at him. Through, Francis couldn’t help but notice, the dark amber black of his glasses.

     _As if this was_ my _fault_ , he’d thought. Adam was fine with NSN machines, and with all the digital tricks up designers’ sleeves these days, hardly anyone got motion sick anymore.

    Not that it was his fault, of course. Or his responsibility. Or even any of his concern, really.

    He watched Adam pull himself up. Not his best moment. Adam’s heels clicked unevenly against the floor as he fought (and then pretended not to fight) against losing his balance again. He fastened a hand on the edge of the sofa and dragged himself up while still glaring through his glasses. It was all melodrama, of course, because Francis had seen those arms crackle and shimmer and bust through rebar and concrete. He’d seen Jensen chuck a fully loaded vending machine down the hallway just to get better access to a vent. He knew what it felt like, Francis thought, noticing a little more heat in his face than he would have liked around someone with a damn CASIE aug, he knew what it felt like to be held by said arms. Gripping him tightly, holding him snugly against Adam’s chest, perfectly steady and perfectly secure.

    Not that Jensen was perfect. He wasn’t. He dragged himself up slowly and dug his fingers into the sofa back, which was _not_ infuriating, Francis told himself. You can’t be jealous of sofas. Especially not for stupid reasons.

    “You got one more shot at this,” Jensen grumbled.

    “I’ll try to find you something easier next time,” Francis fired back, almost immediately.

    Too quickly, in fact.

    Jensen smirked, a small smile, yes, but he didn’t have to do that. He was _trying_ to be annoying now.

    Francis turned around and grabbed his coat off the chair, put it on and zipped it up in a huff. He could hear Jensen’s heels knocking against the ground as he walked over, the man could be silent when he wanted to, and yet.

    A moment later, Adam’s arms wrapped around him, both hands going up to play lightly with the zipper of Francis’ coat.

    “It’s an old game,” Francis said with a forced coldness he certainly wasn’t feeling, “It’s going to take me some time to getting it working on modern systems.”

    One hand walked its way up to the jacket's collar, a hooked finger tugging it down slightly and exposing the skin on Francis’ neck.

    “Same time next week?” Jensen said quietly.

     _You hope_ , he’d been prepared to say, when he felt a soft breath on his skin, and a second later, Jensen’s warm lips and the slight tickling of his beard on Francis’ neck.

    He relaxed instinctively, let Jensen’s arms finally do some work. Caught himself doing it when Jensen’s arms tightened in response.

    He shoved himself free and turned to face Jensen. “Same time _next_ week,” he emphasized.

    The shades gone now, Francis could watch the yellow-green half rings in Adam’s eyes twisting and focusing in on him. For a moment, Francis thought Jensen was going to pull him closer, but his hand went instead for the back of his head, running over the stuck-up ends of his hair. Soft, messy - begging to be smoothed down and curled under and over fingers.

    “Next week,” Francis repeated, more to himself than anything.

    Adam’s smile softened.

    “I’ll be ready,” he promised gently, still with the small smile.

    “I highly doubt that,” Francis informed him curtly, then walked to the door hoping very much that it looked more like storming off than running off.

    “Storming off,” Adam called, and Francis fingers froze on the doorknob, because he knew he hadn’t said that out loud-

    “Three years, Francis,” Jensen said, with a hint of laughter. “I think I know you pretty well by now.”

    This time, Francis was _certain_ it looked like storming off.

 

* * *

 

    In the end, finding a usable computer had been the easy part. He’d thought reworking the game would have been the simple part. The ‘10s had been the decade when modding reigned supreme - that’s how he remembered it, at any rate. Spent more time than he cared to admit on the Nexus, patching up _Oblivion_. Days on _TESV and VII_. Much less time on the Witcher III and V (both had fewer mods, obviously because they were the superior games).

    But he hadn’t found anything on _Alpha Protocol_ except one attempt at a basic .ini file edit.

    Sure, he understood why. It never had been the world’s most popular game, more of a world of mouth thing. Still, that hadn’t made starting from square one any easier.

    He sighed, reached across Jensen and typed in the lock screen password one-handed.

    “You grew up with physical keyboards,” Francis complained.

    Jensen stared at the machine balanced on his knees. “Haven’t seen a laptop in years.”

    “Allow me to help. You type with your fingers,” he said, waving his own around, “and then words appear on the screen. It’s very easy - should only take you a few hours to figure out.”

    Jensen shrugged, and watched the loading logo spin next to the stark white “Welcome!” text.

    “ _Windows?”_ he asked, shaking his head. “Windows _8?”_

    “We can go back to the VR machine if you’re unhappy.”

    “Throwback Thursday over here.”

    “ _Throwback Thursday?”_

    “Just trying to get in the spirit. Throwback Thursday, awesome. I can’t even, seriously.” Jensen shook his head again. “Where’d you even _find_ Windows 8?”

    “Win 10,” Francis said under his breath, then crossed his arms and resolved not to give Jensen any more fodder.

    Thankfully, the computer chimed cheerfully, and the blank black background appeared. All default shortcuts dragged into the recycling bin, taskbar locked and left aligned like he liked it, and Cortana completely disabled. Well, as completely as she could be. _The 10s._

    “There’s nothing there,” Jensen pointed out, actually tapping a finger against the screen.

    Francis scowled at the back of Jensen’s head, pried the wireless mouse free.

    “I didn’t want to confuse you,” he said, while he rifled through the computer’s digital files. _There_ was the launcher.

    Jensen leaned back into the sofa, pondered that for a second.

     _Probably trying to decide if he’d rather admit he was confused and claim I failed at something, or pretend he knew exactly what was going on the whole time_ , Francis thought.

    “Looks like you failed,” he finally said. “And here I thought you were smarter than that.”

    “Unfortunately for you, Jensen,” Francis said, the sharpness of his words accentuated by his harsh, short clicks on the mouse, “you’re very predictable.”

    He snatched his motorcycle helmet off the table, pulled the plastic bag out. The bubble-wrapped wireless controller on the inside seemed fully intact. A OEM vintage he’d gotten online especially for the occasion. Matte black with worn buttons, new thumbstick grips with a thin gold circle outlining them. Brand new battery pack, taken longer to find that than Windows 10.

    He grabbed Jensen’s hand off the keyboard, and wrapped it around the controller. “You’ll need this. I can only hope you remember how to use one.”

    Surprisingly, Jensen frowned and put it back on the table. “Pritchard, you don’t have to treat me like I’ve never played a PC game before.”

    Funny. Most of Francis’ insults went right over Jensen’s head. Except the ones he hadn’t meant.

    “Any other time, I’d give you that one. But _Alpha Protocol_ is…” he explained, “…finicky. I’d suggest you keep it.”

    Jensen eyed it suspiciously, then pushed it further away with a finger. “I’m no console peasant.”

    “Nobody says that anymore.”

    “It’s Throwback Thursday.”

    “Suit yourself,” Francis said, and swiped his helmet off the table. He ignored the controller. Jensen _would_ need it. “But don’t come begging me for help when you can’t get past the lockpicking minigames.”

    “Sounds like a blast.”

    “Don’t get me wrong – you’ll like it. The main character thinks he’s smart, but usually ends up shooting his way out of situations instead of listening to his much more competent handler. You’ll love him.”

    Jensen grinned. “I already do,” he said, throwing an arm over the sofa and watching Francis push himself off. He tracked Francis’ movement across the living room, but didn’t say anything until he had almost reached the door, fingers hooking under his hair tie in preparation for fitting his helmet on.

    When he did say something, his eyes were a hair too wide, and there was a small high note in the back of his tone that Francis didn’t quite like.

    “Next week?” Adam asked.

    “No,” Francis said calmly, “I’m _going_ to watch this train wreck happen. Tonight. But I had to run through the tutorial some eight times trying to test it. I’d rather not be here for the ninth time.”

    “Right.” The high note still sat there, except now joined by what looked for all the world like tension in his outstretched arm and in the lines on his forehead.

    “I’m just going to get some food,” Francis told him, strapping his helmet into place. “You don’t have any.”

    And because Jensen was still sitting there, blinking at him, and because Francis had never been entirely sure Jensen knew there were four food groups besides grain, he added, “You’re out of cereal.”

    “Oh,” Jensen said, and flipped back around. “Shoulda led with that.”

    Francis' helmet was securely fastened, so banging his head against the wall probably wouldn’t do any serious damage. Still, he’d rather not give Jensen that satisfaction of hearing it.

    So, he did it quietly.

    “I’ll be back in twenty,” he said. “Try not to break anything.”

    And that particular dig did, of course, fly over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure: you can pry my controller from my cold dead hands


End file.
